


Revelations

by karuvapatta



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Finale, Reminiscing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 04:02:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19265509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karuvapatta/pseuds/karuvapatta
Summary: Aziraphale had never been to Crowley's flat before.





	Revelations

Armaggedon had been averted. Life, as they say, went on.

He had never been to Crowley’s London flat before. He hadn’t even asked about it when Crowley moved to London, some time in the fifties, well after Aziraphale had made his home here. There was something, well, personal about a flat, even when the person living in it didn’t _actually_ live there, and wasn’t technically a person in the first place. The bookshop they usually met at was a public place, more or less, and therefore neutral ground. Kind of.

The first thing he noticed were the luscious, verdant plants, and the subtle aura of absolute terror surrounding them.

“Oh dear,” he said. “Dreadful business, end of the world. Must have scared these poor things…”

Behind him, Crowley tried not to look guilty.

“Dreadful,” he agreed. “Tea?”

“Please,” Aziraphale said.

He spoke to the plants in a hushed, gentle voice. That seemed to relax them a little, although only until Crowley poked his head through the doorway.

“Tea’s ready,” he said pointedly.

“This place is quite stylish,” Aziraphale hazarded. Style was what Crowley seemed to be going for, but they had wildly different ideas on the subject, and it changed so often Aziraphale hardly bothered to keep track any more.

The demon hummed in agreement, sprawling on the throne-like chair behind his desk. The armchair Aziraphale occupied seemed a last-minute addition and clashed with its surroundings, all charm and no style, worn out from frequent use, and almost – no, wait, _exactly_ – like the one in his bookshop.

“Did you steal my chair?” Aziraphale asked suspiciously.

“Borrowed.” Crowley said. Then, after a loaded pause: “Never had a reason to put one here.”

Aziraphale sipped his tea.

No, he had not been to Crowley’s flat. Not because he didn’t think he would be welcome. Quite the opposite, in fact – it was the tone of voice, the soft note of hope in Crowley’s ordinarily sarcastic drawl. Aziraphale had told himself that it was his God-given duty to resist the temptation, except by then he no longer believed Crowley was trying to tempt him into anything Aziraphale was not secretly wishing he could do.

“I do like the décor,” Aziraphale said. He nodded towards the sketch on the wall. “The original, I believe. And this—” he took note of the sculpture in the far end of the corridor and cleared his throat nervously. “Very well made. Goodness me, whatever will the humans think of next?”

Crowley was watching him intently from behind his sunglasses.

“At least they will have the time to,” he said. “No one will thank _us_ , of course. You can count on that.”

“We’ve done a good thing, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “That should be a reward unto itself.”

“Your side doesn’t seem to think so.”

“Well, _I_ know so,” Aziraphale said sharply. He knew he was being teased, because Crowley was smirking at him with a fond expression. “You do, too. Don’t tell me you would want to fight another Great War.”

“Oh, I didn’t even bother with the first one,” Crowley said. “Early days of Hell. Haven’t quite worked out the bureaucracy yet. No one noticed when I nipped off to the moon for a while.”

“I see,” said Aziraphale, who marched in the first row because he had been told to, and received a commendation for slaying demons with his flaming sword that landed him the job in the Garden of Eden. It had been a prestigious position and a tremendous honour, even if Aziraphale had never quite recovered the rock-hard certainty from before the battle.

“You were always braver than me, Crowley,” he said wistfully.

“Is that what you wanna call it?” Crowley said with obvious disdain. “I told you before, I never meant to Fall. It was just Lucifer going around, making all those rousing speeches about freedom and the tyrant who ruled us. Then it turned out that the only tyrannical rule he actually objects to is somebody else’s, but by then, it was too late for me.” He glared at his cup of tea. It transformed into a glass of bourbon. “Just like that. Poof! Gone. And the Gates of Heaven were slammed shut, until the guys had the bright idea to storm them.” He sighed. “You could get into a lot of trouble for listening to the wrong people, back in those days.”

_All part of the Great Plan_ , Gabriel had said. _We must purge the evil from our own ranks._ Privately, Aziraphale thought that Heaven could be a bit too keen on the purging, and they all would benefit from some harmless hobby to occupy their time. There were so many wonderful things right here on the world they were going to destroy, after all, and Aziraphale felt a surge of gratitude for its continuous existence. Then came the guilt, as he _had_ betrayed his kind and his purpose and everything he was supposed to stand for. He might as well start getting used to the feeling.

“It is odd though,” he said out-loud.

“Hmm?”

“Falling, I mean. I never thought it would be like this.”

Crowley scoffed.

“You did not fall, angel. Don’t get dramatic on me.”

“I’m fairly sure I did,” Aziraphale said, a little hurt. Rebellion against Heaven, free-thinking, that whole business. Of course matters were complicated by the fact that no one actually _knew_ God’s ineffable plan, and even Gabriel’s attempt at executing him seemed to have less to do with righteousness and more to do with personal vendetta.

Crowley uncrossed his long legs and sauntered towards the window, with only the occasional glance in Aziraphale’s direction.

“What about me, then?” he asked. “It’s not like I had anywhere further to fall. Straight to the rock bottom, no returns. That’s what Hell’s all about.”

He polished off the bourbon and then glared at the empty glass until it refilled.

Aziraphale joined him by the window. His tea was still tea, the human world was humming along outside of their window, and for the first time in eleven years, he could look forward to enjoying his evening with no sense of oncoming doom. And then there was the demon beside him, who somehow made it all more vibrant, more interesting, and overall worth living for.

“This is us, then,” Aziraphale said lightly. “Rock bottom. You have to admit, my dear, that it could be worse.”

It was an awkward affair, to meet Crowley’s eyes; it took him several tries. Six thousand years, and he was only now beginning to grasp what had been offered to him, and what he had denied over and over out of loyalty to rules that didn’t really matter and people who couldn’t give less of a damn about anyone other than themselves.

“So what is it like for you?” Crowley asked. His voice was quiet and soft, softer than Aziraphale had ever heard it. “Falling.”

Aziraphale considered this. He thought of the strange feeling blooming in his chest; he thought that Heaven hadn’t felt like home in a long time, and while the human world was jolly interesting, he knew he could only ever be a guest in it. But here, now, there was a space made just for him, and a whole new sense of belonging. He couldn’t quite find the words to describe it, and even if he did, he was worried Crowley might find them terribly sappy.

“Peaceful, I suppose,” he said.

Fallen or not, Aziraphale was still an angel. He could sense the quiet, deep contentment echoed in Crowley; a tingle of surprise when he took Crowley’s hand, lacing their fingers together. It was a human gesture, pure and simple, but he found himself enjoying it immensely. Even more so when he stepped closer, laying his head on Crowley’s shoulder and that ridiculous leather jacket of his; when the demon pressed his lips to his temple, and all of the universe slotted into place.


End file.
